As I lay in bed, unable to fall asleep, consumed by an exquisite pain in my head and a strange loneliness, I tried to comb through the tangles of my thoughts. Hypnagogia mingled with music to aid creativity, and I soon found myself upright, scribbling in my notebook, my hand and mind quivering, making my lines hardly intelligible. I thought the writing would be cathartic, but I remained awake, shaking, and pondering the unpleasantness of life.
In the morning, as I had expected, the feeling had gone, though the migraine remained, and I put away the papers by my bed, without even glancing over my momentary passionate thoughts.
Later, visiting my grandparents, I found myself ruminating once more–old age is something to avoid. For those unfortunate enough to be there, I have pity and contempt, and for myself… well, I’ll try me best not to get there.